The Morning After the Night Before
by Rae666
Summary: John wakes up with a hangover in a strange bed and is attempting to remember what happened when Sherlock enters the room. Misunderstandings ensue. Madness/Crack/Minor fluff


**The Morning After the Night Before**

_Summary: John wakes up with a hangover in a strange bed and is attempting to remember what happened when Sherlock enters the room. Misunderstandings ensue. Madness/Crack/Minor fluff_

_Disclaimer: I own only my own madness._

_Spoilers: None really…_

_A/N: Apparently I can't stop writing random Sherlock one shots. I would complain but I enjoy playing with the characters too much ^^ _

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><p>John was drunk.<p>

Or at least he had been drunk. If the headache and feeling in his stomach was anything to go by, he had been _very_ drunk. Though, considering he could not quite remember getting so drunk or the events that had followed, he had no way to know just exactly how drunk he had been.

All he did know was he had been _very_ drunk and was now _very_ hung-over in a bed that was very much not his. And he knew it wasn't his because his mattress had that annoying spring that always managed to dig into him no matter which way he lay. This mattress did not have that spring.

He opened one eye, cautious, and cast a glance toward the other side of the bed. Empty except for an impression in the pillow from where a head had been. But said head was missing.

_"It's probably in the fridge,"_ a small voice at the back of his mind whispered and John was inclined to agree.

He opened his other eye now and turned over onto his back. It was a very comfortable bed, this strange bed. The mattress was just the right softness and the sheets gave him just the right amount of warmth. It was the type of bed that Goldilocks would have appreciated very much. Only, John wasn't Goldilocks and he didn't make a habit of waking up in stranger's beds. And if he were Goldilocks, he could only imagine what sort of bear owned this particular bed and what they would think of him for making himself at home in it.

He shook the thoughts from his head, blaming them on the remnants of alcohol in his system. The thoughts he should have been focusing on were the ones that would help him to figure out just where he was and how he got there.

His gaze fell away from the ceiling and he surveyed what little he could make out of the room. With the curtains drawn, the light was too dull to see every aspect but from what was visible, he had a sneaky suspicion that he knew this place. It seemed far too familiar – the wallpaper especially. And, he thought as he pushed up so he was now resting against the headboard, the sheets seemed equally familiar.

He had the vague recollection of pulling them from the wash not two days ago. Sherlock truly was hopeless when it came to household chores. In fact, he was hopeless when it came to anything mundane. If it didn't involve fizzing chemicals or a dead body or two, then Sherlock…

Sherlock.

Oh God.

He was in Sherlock's bed.

_Why was he in Sherlock's bed?_

The question had barely managed to cross from one synapse to another inside his brain when the bedroom door opened inward and John only just managed to contain the yelp of surprise.

The raven-haired man entered the room, already dressed and ready for another day.

"Oh good, you're awake," he said, eyes meeting John's for a fraction of a moment, face unreadable as he rounded the bed and grabbed his phone from the nightstand. "We're out of milk."

John just stared. He worked at his jaw but his mind couldn't decide which questions were more prevalent and he could only watch Sherlock typing out a text on his mobile.

"Sherlock," he finally managed to say when the silence got too much, his voice just a little strangled, trepidation lining the name. He closed his eyes and scrunched up his face. "Why am I in your bed?"

When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was looking at him, the tiniest presence of a frown tugging at his lips and pulling at his brow. "I would have thought the answer was obvious."

And John nearly choked. "Sherlock, are you saying…" No, wait. He didn't want to know. But he had to… "Are you saying we… we _slept_ together?"

The frown on Sherlock's face deepened. "Is that a problem?"

"Is that a…." John took a breath, feeling himself both pale and blush simultaneously. He wouldn't have thought it possible until that moment. "Sherlock – what _exactly_ happened last night?"

Sherlock seemed to think for a moment. "I required your assistance on a case but you weren't answering your phone, forcing me to retrieve you from that… that…"

John had his head in his hands now. "It was a stag night, Sherlock. A stag night."

And oh, God, what had he done?

"Yes, from there."

His heart was going crazy inside his chest. Was he having a heart attack?

_"Of course you're not,"_ that voice from before admonished. _"You're a doctor! You should know what a heart attack is!"_

"And then what?" he asked, ignoring the voice.

"And then I noticed a very odd young lady slipping something into your drink. I did warn you not to drink it but you become quite impossible when inebriated." He turned his attention back to the phone, continuing his text.

A sudden frustration replaced John's embarrassment and he shot forward, pulling the phone from Sherlock's grip. It was then, as the sheets fell away, that he realised he was wearing only his boxers – though, honestly, considering everything, he was surprised, and yet relieved, to be wearing anything at all.

"Where are my clothes, Sherlock?" he asked, even though the voice, that really, _really_ annoying voice that needed to stop speaking so loud because his head hurt far too much, that voice told him that clothes were the least of his worries. What happened after he left the pub was, however, not.

"Wash," Sherlock answered simply, eyes locked longingly on the phone in John's hand. It was at times like that when there was something so childlike in those eyes. Something so innocent… almost vulnerable. "They were too messy. They would have stained the sheets."

"Oh…" was all John could manage because really, he was beginning to think that a lot must have happened in this huge memory gap of his.

"Can I have my phone back?" Sherlock's voice snapped him away from his thoughts and he looked at the man.

"Not until I know what happened last night after…" he swallowed hard, trying to get the rest of the question out. "After the pub…"

Sherlock let go of a long breath, one that said he was growing impatient. "Obviously, we returned to the flat and after much fumbling around on your part, I managed to get you into my bed. The couch would have been closer but I thought the bed would be much more comfortable. Given how much trouble I had carrying you up one flight of stairs, I didn't have the patience to carry you to your room so I had to settle for mine."

"And then we…" John couldn't say it. His brain had shut down and his throat stopped working altogether.

"Really, John? You would think you had never been ill before. That drug must have been stronger than I thought if it's still affecting you now."

"Ill?" John repeated. He very nearly laughed but the churning in his stomach quelled that idea.

A puzzled look passed over Sherlock's face. "Yes, ill. I spent the majority of the night watching over you to ensure you didn't swallow your tongue. It was really quite inconvenient."

"So when you said my clothes were messy…?"

"You fell into a puddle on our way back to the flat. Well, I say fell… you attempted to dive into it and slipped."

"And when I asked if we'd _slept_ together, you meant…"

"That we were asleep," Sherlock finished, wary. "What else could I have meant?"

"Nothing," John answered quickly, a smile spreading across his face as he shook his head vehemently. "Nothing at all."

This time he couldn't stop the laughter and it hurt but, oh, God, he couldn't help it.

"Slept together," he murmured under his breath, staring at the sheets and still smiling. "Of course…"

"John?" Sherlock asked from beside him, careful, and John suddenly felt a hand on his brow. The man was checking for a temperature and given John's behaviour, the doctor could hardly blame him. He would have done the same.

"Yes?" John questioned, the remains of a giggle in his voice, looking to his friend.

Sherlock had those eyes again – the young ones – and when he pulled his hand away from John's brow, he didn't seem to quite know what to do with it. John watched him in silence, waiting for the man to answer. When he did, it was only after he had cleared his throat and shifted from one foot to the other.

"You should not go drinking for awhile," the raven-haired man said. "And you should avoid the Fox and the Hound altogether. I have a feeling that the young lady who drugged you may try again…"

John beamed at him. "And we wouldn't want that."

Instead of answering, Sherlock shifted awkwardly on the spot before turning to leave, phone evidentially forgotten. There was an awkwardness to his movements that John recognised. It was the same awkwardness that came about whenever Sherlock was unsure of himself and, John had decided after much thought on the subject, it always appeared to happen when the man was presented with emotions – namely ones the detective wasn't familiar or comfortable with and usually his own.

"Sherlock," John spoke up, stopping the man midway to the door. "Thank you… for watching over me."

There was a flicker of a smile along with something else that was too brief for John to identify, and then Sherlock's features were schooled carefully once more. John expected him to say something further on the subject, what the man said instead was, "We're still out of milk."

And then he left the room, leaving only the echo of his next works which brought back all the earlier embarrassment John had been feeling.

"Though you may want to put some clothes on before you call at the shop. People may get the wrong idea."

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><p><em>Thanks for reading!<em>


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